Bloody Mary

"What does that mean?"

"Ever since our divorce, Mary and I have been in touch."

I snorted. "Bullshit."

"Why is it bullshit? I always loved your mother."

I had him there. "Since when did love stop you from leaving?"

Alan nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Jacqueline!" my mother called from the living room. "You didn't tell me you had a cat!"

"Mom, don't!"

I rushed past Alan, hoping to prevent the maiming, and was shocked to see Mom cradling Mr. Friskers in her arms and stroking his head.

"He's adorable. What's his name?"

"Mr. Friskers."

"Oh. Well, he's adorable anyway."

"You should put him down, Mom. He doesn't like people very much."

"Nonsense. He seems to like me just fine."

"Then why is he growling at you?"

"That's not growling, Jacqueline. That's purring."

Son of a gun. Damn cat never purred for me. Not once.

My mother made a show of looking around the apartment. She tapped her knuckles on a large cardboard box. "What's with all the packing, dear? Putting some things into storage?"

"Yes." I hadn't yet told my mother about moving in with Latham.

"Good. I'll need the room."

She beamed at me, so full of strength and life, so unlike the woman I saw in the hospital bed months before.

I tried to sound upbeat. "You've decided to move in?"

"Yes, I have. I know I've threatened to disown you whenever you brought it up, but I came to a different conclusion. I don't believe I need you to look after me, but I don't have too many years left, and I'd like to spend them in the company of my daughter."

I smiled, wondering how real it looked. I'd given up trying to bully my mother into living with me, which is why I finally relented with Latham.

He would be crushed.

And, truth be told, I was crushed too.

"I have a buyer for the condo in Florida. I brought some papers for you to sign."

"Great."

"I should be ready to move in next week."

"Great."

Mom set down the cat and hobbled up to me, putting a wrinkled hand on my cheek.

"We'll talk more later, dear. We caught an early flight and I'm exhausted. Do you mind if I take a short nap here on the couch?"

"Use my bed, Mom."

At least someone would be using it. For something.

"Go grab something to eat with Alan. I know you have a lot of catching up to do."

She gave my face a tender pat and limped into the bedroom.

Alan stood by the window, hands in his pockets.

"Are you up for breakfast?" he asked.

"No."

"Would you like me to go?"

"Yes."

"Are you taking anything for depression?"

"Why would you think I was depressed?"

He shrugged, almost imperceptibly. Much of Alan's emotional range was imperceptible.

"Your mother seems to think you need someone now."

"So you came running to the rescue? Isn't that odd, considering the last time I needed someone, you fled like a thief in the night."

He smiled.

"I didn't leave like a thief in the night."

"Yes, you did."

"I left in the mid-afternoon, and I didn't take a single thing with me."

"You took my jacket."

"What jacket?"

"The one you're wearing right now."

"This is my jacket."

"I'm the one who wore it all the time."

"Why don't we fight about it over breakfast?"

"I don't want breakfast."

"You need to eat."

"How do you know what I need?"

Alan walked past me, and I wondered if I hit a nerve. I followed him into the kitchen.

"I said, how do you know what I need?"

"I heard you."

He found a mug, poured some coffee, and handed it to me.

"I don't want coffee."

"Yes you do. You're always pissy until you have your first cup of coffee."

I whined, "I am not pissy."

Alan started to laugh, and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from grinning.

"Fine. Gimmee the coffee."

He gimmeed, and I took a sip, surprised at how good it tasted.

"If you don't want to go out, I can cook." Alan opened the fridge and pulled out a single egg. "It's your last one. We can split it."

"I'd like my half sunny-side up."

I sat at my dinette set and watched Alan search for a frying pan. It brought back memories. Fond ones. Alan made breakfast almost every morning, during the years we'd been married.

Having found the pan, Alan searched the fridge again.

"No butter?"

"I haven't been to the store in a while."

"I can tell. What's this, a lime or a potato?" He held out a greenish brown thing.

"I think it's a tomato."

"There's something growing on it."

"Save it. I may need it if I ever get a staph infection."

He tossed the tomato in the garbage, and found two red potatoes, half a green onion, and half a bottle of chardonnay. From the freezer he took a bag of mixed vegetables and a pound of bacon. Then he went through my cabinets, liberating some olive oil, several spices, and a jar of salsa.

"This doesn't seem like an appetizing combination of food items."

He winked. "I've got to work with what I've got."

I sipped my coffee and watched him for the twenty minutes it took to microwave, peel, and dice the potatoes, fry the bacon, and saute the veggies, chopped onion, salsa, and assorted spices in olive oil and white wine. He added the potatoes and bacon, stirred like mad, and then dumped the contents onto two plates.

"Hash a la Daniels." He set the plate in front of me.

"Smells good."

"If it's lousy, there's always pizza. Hold on."

The egg was still frying on the stove. He slid it out of the pan, sunny-side up, onto my pile of hash.

"Bon appetit."

I took a bite, and that led to two and three, and pretty soon I was shoveling it down my throat conveyor-belt fashion.

We didn't speak during breakfast, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable.

When I scooped the last bite into my mouth, Alan whisked away my plate and refilled my coffee.

"Still angry?" Alan asked.

"A little. I thought we had an unspoken understanding all these years."

"Which was?"

"You don't call me, I don't call you."

He nodded, putting his plate into the dishwasher.

"I never called you, Jack, because I knew it would hurt."

"You didn't seem to mind hurting me when you left."

"I wasn't referring to you in this case."

"You're saying it would have hurt you to call me?"

"Yes."

What could I say to that? I chose, "Oh."

Alan closed the dishwasher, then sat across from me, leaning in.

"So, how are you?" he asked.

"Fine."

"I know you're not fine, Jack."

"How would you know that?"

"Still have the insomnia?"

I looked away. "Yeah."

"You feel guilty about that cop's wife."

"Not really. IA cleared me on the shooting. It was completely by-the-book."

"By-the-book isn't enough for you. You have to be perfect, or you can't live with yourself."

I felt the armor I'd built up over the last decade begin to flake away. I needed to hate Alan. That's how I got through it.

"You don't know me like you think you do."

He shifted back in his chair, giving me room to breathe.

"How's the injury?"

"Almost healed, thank God. Latham has been more than patient."

"Latham?"

"My boyfriend."

I stared hard at Alan, but he didn't react. I don't know why that disappointed me.

"That's probably why you think I'm not fine. I just need to get laid."

"That did make you cranky. Remember that time I threw out my back?"

I grinned. "The three worst weeks of our marriage. Productive, though. I doubled my arrest record during that time."

"Remember when I was finally healed?"

"Yeah. We made up for lost time, didn't we?"

"Sure did. And I threw out my back again."

We both laughed, and I wondered how he turned the conversation away from Latham so quickly.

"I love him. Latham, I mean."

Alan stood up and walked over to me.

"That's nice. You deserve it."

"He's wonderful. You'd like him."

He put his hand on my shoulder.

"I hope I get a chance to meet him."

He leaned down, getting in my personal space.

"What are you doing?"

"Do you think there could ever be an 'us' again?"

"I don't think so."

"Prove it to me."

"How?"

"Kiss me."

"No. You don't have that right."

"I made a mistake, leaving. I want to make it up to you. But I need to know if your feelings are still there."

"Alan . . ."

"I still love you, Jack. I always have. I didn't leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I couldn't compete with your job. It took everything you had, and there was nothing left for me. Plus, the constant worrying you wouldn't come home."

"Nothing has changed, Alan."

"I've changed. I can handle it now. And seeing you again . . ."

I said, "Don't," but his lips met mine, and I didn't stop it, I didn't pull away, and all of our history came rushing back, all of the good times, and I closed my eyes and let my tongue find his and spent a moment wondering what might have been.

Then I found my center and pushed him gently away.

"I'm in love with another man."

"I know."

I traced my fingers along his jaw.

"You hurt me, Alan."

"I know."

"I don't want to do this."

But when he kissed me again, I knew that I did.

Chapter 24

I didn't sleep with him, but felt so damn guilty I might as well have.

After the kissing became light petting, I excused myself to check on Mom.

Mom was snoring peacefully, with a silly smile on her face. I wasn't stupid. Bringing Alan here was part of some grand plan of hers, and for all she knew, it was working out fine.

For all I knew, she was right.

I dragged my tired bones into the shower, a cold one, and dressed in the most unattractive outfit I had: one of Latham's ratty football jerseys and an old pair of size ten jeans (after Alan left I briefly went from an eight to a ten, having traded the comfort of a husband for the comfort of pie).

I was searching through my closet for my ugliest pair of shoes, when I heard the screaming.

Alan.

My gun was in the bedside nightstand, and I grabbed it and ran into the living room. Alan was writhing on the sofa, Mr. Friskers trying to gnaw off his ear.

I realized I was pointing my gun, relaxed my death grip and set it on the table, and then tried to goad the cat off my ex-husband.

"Bad kitty. Let go of his ear."

I tugged. Alan screamed.

"Careful, Jack! He's clamped down on cartilage!"

"Hold on. I'll be right back."

"Hurry! He's chewing!"

I found the catnip mouse under the sofa, and shoved it under Mr. Friskers's nose.

"Easy, cat. Let him go. Let him go."

The cat went limp, and I pulled him away from Alan and set him on the floor.

"I was just sitting there, and he attacked me. How bad am I bleeding?"

"Bad."

"Stitches-bad?"

"You're missing about half your ear."

Alan spun around, alarmed.

"Really?"

"Maybe we can pump the cat's stomach." I kept my voice neutral. "We might be able to sew it back on."

He figured out I was joshing him and threw a sofa cushion at me.

I went to the kitchen and pulled a bunch of paper towels off the roll. Since acquiring Mr. Friskers, I always made sure I had an ample supply.

"It hurts." Alan had a hand clamped to his ear. He frowned, petulant.

"Oh, quit being a baby. It's nothing."

"Easy for you to say. For the rest of my life, my sunglasses will be crooked."

"You'll be fine. If you want, I'll let you borrow some of my earrings." I dabbed at the blood. "You have enough holes for six or seven."

"Funny. What's wrong with that cat, anyway?"

"I haven't been able to figure that out yet. Hold this, here, while I get the rubbing alcohol."

Alan moaned, and I went off in search of supplies.

A liberal splash of Bactine knocked the ardor out of Alan, and he didn't make another pass at me during the time it took to bandage his ear. I silently thanked Mr. Friskers for the reprieve.

I suggested watching a movie until my mom woke up, and offered Alan a choice of Breakfast at Tiffany's or Royal Wedding, the only two videos I owned. While we debated the various merits of each, the phone rang.

"Jack? Herb. How you feeling?"

"Better," I said. And I was. "Calling to check on me?"

"No. We, uh, need you at the office."

"I thought I was still on medical leave."

"The leave has been canceled. Direct order from Captain Bains, we need you here yesterday."

"What's this about, Herb?"

"It's Fuller."

"Gimme twenty minutes."

Alan stared at me. I realized this was a micro-encapsulation of our marriage -- me getting a phone call and then running to work.

But we weren't married anymore, so I had nothing to feel guilty about.

"There's an extra set of keys in the little ceramic frog on top of the refrigerator," I told him. "Tell Mom she can reach me on my cell."

I tiptoed into the bedroom and changed into a pantsuit without waking my mother. Rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it back in a short ponytail. I spent all of two minutes on my face, not bothering with foundation or eyeliner.

Alan was sitting on the sofa, facing a TV that wasn't on. I picked up my gun from the table and put it in my holster.

"Be careful." He didn't turn his head to look at me.

"Will you be here when I get back?"

He met my eyes and cocked his head slightly to the left, as if appraising me.

"I've got a room at the Raphael for a week. I figured I'd look up some friends, visit a few old haunts."

I felt something that I realized was relief.

"I'll see you soon, then."

"Dinner tonight?"

"It might be late."

"I'm used to waiting up for you."

I nodded, grabbed my London Fog trench coat, and left the apartment.

Chicago smelled like fall, which is to say the garbage and exhaust fume stench carried a hint of dying leaves. The Windy City was suitably windy, temperature in the mid-fifties, the sidewalks damp from a recent rain.

There was a powwow waiting for me in my office when I got to the station. Benedict, who was wearing the new Brooks Brothers suit he bought himself as a reward for losing twenty pounds, our boss Captain Bains, and Assistant State's Attorney Libby Fischer.

Stephen Bains had been captain of the 2-6 for as long as anyone could remember. He was short, portly, and balding. He combated the latter with a hair weave, which looked realistic except for the fact that it lacked gray, whereas his mustache was practically white.

Libby Fischer was around my age, and a clotheshorse. She wore a beige Gaultier top with a matching knee-length skirt that probably cost more than I made in a month. A white pearl choker, red Kenneth Cole pumps, and a small red Louis Vuitton bag rounded out her ensemble.

Libby smiled a lot. If I had her wardrobe, I would have too.

"How's the stomach?"

That was as close to a pleasantry as Bains would get.

"Better," I answered. "I think I'll be--"

"We're going to lose the Fuller case," Libby interrupted. She smiled sweetly.

I didn't try to hide my surprise.

"How the hell can that be? Is something inadmissible?"

"No. The case is solid. It's that brain tumor, floating in a glass jar, labeled exhibit A."

Bains frowned. "As you're aware, Fuller has been claiming amnesia since recovering from surgery. He says he has no memory of any murders."

Libby stood up and went to the window. "And so far, our shrinks haven't been able to crack him."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Fuller's blaming the murders on his brain tumor?"

Libby continued to stare out the captain's window. "He's doing just that. It was on his frontal lobe, the brain's behavior center. It controls emotion, personality, and understanding of right and wrong. Expert shrinks are falling all over themselves eager to explain to a jury how a tumor can radically alter someone's personality. Fuller's lawyers are going for the first ever insanity defense based on physical evidence."

My anger level continued to build. "If he's declared insane, he still gets locked up, right?"

"Wrong. If they prove he was insane at the time of his crimes, and the insanity was caused by the tumor, he's a free man. No more tumor, no more insanity. The bastard walks."

"Jesus."

Bains stared at me, hard.

"Are you one hundred percent, Jack?"

I didn't feel one hundred percent, but I sensed something coming. I nodded.

"Good," Bains continued. "I want you to talk to him."

"To Fuller? Why?"

"A confession would be nice. But I'll settle for your impression of whether he's bullshitting or not."

"If he's faking, we can plan a better attack," Libby said.

"Do we suspect he's faking?"

"It would be nice if he was," Libby sat back down, "but we just don't know. He's been interviewed by over a dozen people: shrinks, lawyers, cops, doctors. So far he's unimpeachable."

"Has he taken a lie detector?"

"One. Theirs. And he passed with flying colors. He's got another scheduled tomorrow, with one of our examiners."

After a moment, I asked, "Why me?" My job was to arrest criminals. Other people were much more qualified to do follow-up interviews.

Bains scratched his weave. "You worked with him for several years. You know him. You're biased to our side, so you'll try to see through the lies. I don't have to tell you what a media circus this case has become."

"I'm not a professional interrogator, Captain. I don't want to see him back on the streets, but I don't think--"

"There's something else, Jack."

"What?"

Bains caught me in his iron gaze. "Fuller asked for you. Specifically."

"For me? Why?"

Libby leaned in close, like we were best friends sharing a secret.

"We don't know. He hasn't given anyone a reason. But since his capture, he's inquired about you many times. His counsel has advised him to not talk to us, and lately he's been a clam. But Fuller agreed to an interview, and he'll even do it without his attorneys present, but only with you. Of course, his statements won't be admissible as evidence, so if he says anything we'll have to introduce it through your testimony."

I replayed the scene in my head again. Kicking in the door. Telling Fuller to let his wife go. The bullets erupting from Holly's stomach, drilling into mine.

"I'd be happy to take a crack at him."

"He's at Cook County. You'll meet with him in a private visiting booth. Alone. Plexiglas wall between you. You know the setup."

"Will I be wired?"

Libby placed her palms on her thighs and smoothed out the Gaultier. "We all know that it's illegal to record someone without their consent. It would be inadmissible as evidence. As an officer of the court, I can't be privy to any knowledge of criminal activity, and if I heard of any I'd report it immediately. On a completely unrelated note, I was reviewing some old case histories and came across some interesting legal terms. One is called recollection refresh, and the other is transcript for impeachment."

Libby then spent five minutes explaining how an illegal tape recording could be used in a trial.

When she finished, Bains said, "I'd like to go on record to say there will be no illegal taping of any suspects in my district. Especially with this voice-activated tape recorder."

Bains placed a slim electronic unit on his desk. I put it in my pocket.

"When can I meet with him?"

"You've got a meeting scheduled in an hour. Good luck, Jack. I'll expect a full report on my desk in the morning."

Libby stood, shook my hand.

"You know, you could have saved us all this trouble if you'd just aimed one inch lower."

I was beginning to think the same thing myself.

Chapter 25

We'd folded ourselves into the colorful plastic extrusion chairs of a nearby submarine sandwich chain, Herb eating and me staring out the storefront window. It was raining, and gray clouds smeared together with the muted brown and black tones of the city and its dying trees, the few that it had.

Maybe somewhere in the suburbs there were piles of colorful autumn leaves waiting to be jumped into, but here we only had torn brown dead things that turned into mud when wet.

"When I was a kid, every fall, my mom would take me up to Wisconsin to watch the leaves turn. I never appreciated it. Maybe beauty is wasted on the young."

"Could be," Herb said, mostly to the meatball sandwich opened up and splayed out before him. The low-carb diet he was following restricted bread, and he'd pushed it off to the side, giving the protein his full attention.

"What do you think of when you think of autumn?"

"Thanksgiving turkey."

"How about winter?"

"Christmas turkey."

"Spring?"

"Easter ham."

"I sense a theme here."

"You gonna finish that roast beef?"

I allowed Herb access to my half-eaten sub, and he used a fork to pull out the meat.

"I don't understand how eating all of that fat is healthy."

"Got me." Herb opened up a packet of mayo, slathered it on the beef, and crammed it all in. "Works, though."

"Yeah. You look great."

He grunted, as if not believing it.

"Herb? Something on your mind?"

He grunted again.

"Got some cholesterol caught in your throat?"

"It's Bernice."

"Is she okay?"

He shrugged.

Usually, I got daily Bernice updates, but since I'd been out of work, I'd only seen Herb three times. Each time, I'd been unloading my problems, without bothering to ask if he had any.

Some partner.

"What's wrong, Herb?"

"We're at odds. She doesn't like my new lifestyle."

"What? Low carb?"

"The weight loss is only part of it. She doesn't like my car. She told me she's sick of all the constant sex. Vacation is coming up, and we always go to California, to visit her friends in wine country. Been doing that for twenty years. This year, I want to go to Vegas."

"You can compromise. Spend a few days in Las Vegas, a few with her friends."

"Screw her friends."

Which was as spiteful a thing as I'd ever heard come out of Herb's mouth.

I wanted to pursue the issue, but Benedict checked his watch, shoveled in the last meatball, and stood up.

"We're going to be late." Which is what I think he said, cheeks full.

He walked out of the restaurant, and I followed. I tried to bring up the topic in the car, but Herb insisted he didn't want to talk about it.

Cook County Jail stretched from 26th and Cal to 31st and Sacramento, making it the largest single-site pre-detention center in the US. Eight thousand six hundred and fifty-eight men and women resided there, give or take, divvied up among eleven division buildings. Most of the inmates were awaiting their trials, after which they'd be freed or more likely sent someplace else. Others were just commuting their short sentences, ninety days and under.

I did a quick voice test of the tape recorder, and found it in working condition.

After being cleared through the perimeter fence, we located Division Eleven, where they held Fuller. From the outside, the clean, white building looked more like a government office than a maximum security prison.

Inside, however, was all business. We were met by the assistant division superintendent, Jake Carver, a beefy man with a moist handshake. We signed in, checked our weapons, and followed Carver into the bowels of the prison.

"Been a model prisoner." Carver had a voice like a buzz saw. Smoking, drink, or both. "No problems at all."

"What's the security on him?" Herb asked.

"He's in isolation. Can't put a cop in with the general population."

"Have you met him?" I asked.

"Sure. Chitchatted for a while."

"What's your impression?"

"Seems like a nice enough guy."

"Is he lying about the amnesia?"

"If he is, he's the best liar I've ever seen, and I've been with the DOC for almost thirty years. Here we are." We stopped at a white steel door with a six-inch-square window at eye level. "Visiting room H. Got it to yourself for half an hour. Just bang on the door when you want to go, or if he starts getting rowdy. I'll be right here."

Carver unbolted the door and allowed me entrance. I hit the Record button on the tape player in my pocket, then went in.

The room was small, twelve by twelve, lit by overhead strips of fluorescence, one of them flickering. It smelled like body odor and desperation. In the center of the room stood a folding chair, facing an inch-thick, pitted and scratched Plexiglas barrier, reinforced with steel bars, that divided the space in half.

Barry Fuller sat on the other side, a pleasant look on his face. He wore prison clothes; a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit with his number stenciled on the breast. His hands were cuffed, and a chain trailed down, connecting to his leg irons. A large, puffy scar ran from his eyebrow to the top of his head, his crew cut unable to conceal it.

"Thanks for coming, Lieut. Please, have a seat."

I nodded, sitting across from him. I kept my knees together, both feet flat on the ground, my back ramrod-straight.

"Hello, Barry. You look well."

He smiled, lowering his head so his finger could trace the scar.

"Healing pretty good. How about you? They told me you took two in the stomach?"

"I'm managing." I kept my tone even. "Much better than your wife."

Fuller's face seemed to deflate. His eyes got red and teared up.

"Holly. My love. I can't believe I did that."

"Well, you did. I was there. I watched her bleed to death, right in front of me."

Fuller sniffled. He rubbed his eyes, which made them even redder.

"I know how it sounds, Lieutenant. Imagine if you woke up one day, and everyone started telling you about all of these horrible things you did. Things you have no memory of."

"It was the brain tumor, huh?"

"I loved my wife!" Fuller's voice cracked. "I never would have killed her if I knew what I was doing. Jesus, Holly."

His shoulders sagged. A good actor? Or someone who really felt remorse?

"Why did you ask me here, Fuller? Without lawyers? What did you want to say to me?"

"I wanted to thank you."

That threw me.

"What?"

"To thank you. For stopping me, before I hurt anyone else. Also, to apologize for shooting you."

I gave him a once-over.

"Touching, Fuller. I'm deeply touched, really. Your tears make up for all of those women you butchered."

"I don't remember butchering any women. I'm thankful for that, actually. I don't know if I could live with myself if I remembered."

"You don't remember Davi McCormick? Cutting off her arms? Putting my handcuffs on her wrists, so your sicko buddy Rushlo could leave them in the morgue?"

Fuller shook his head.

"How about Eileen Hutton? You bit her so hard she was missing chunks of her flesh."

"Please stop."

"What did she taste like, Barry? Can you remember that?"

"I can't remember anything."

Time to get serious.

"I bet you do remember it. I bet you remember what a rush it was, to cut off her head. I bet it gave you such a sense of power and control. You fucked her too, didn't you? Do you remember if it was before or after you yanked out her heart?"

Barry was really putting on a show now, sobbing loudly. But I wasn't buying.

"Drop the act, Barry. I know you're lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit."

When Fuller pulled his hands away from his face, he was grinning. I'd expected anger or outrage, but he looked outright amused.

"You're wearing a wire, aren't you, Lieutenant?"

I didn't reply.

"You want me to be honest, but you won't be honest yourself? Let me see the wire."

I considered my options. Knowing Barry was faking this seemed more important than proving it. I took out the recorder, then switched it off.

"Fine, Barry. Just you and me. You ready to drop this stupid amnesia ploy and come clean?"

Fuller closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. Then he lifted his arm and rubbed his face on his sleeve, back and forth.

"Onions." He blew his nose. "Under my fingernails. Instant tears, courtesy of the wonderful chicken soup served up nice and hot by the Department of Corrections. Pretty good performance, huh? Anything I need to improve before I give it in court?"

I felt myself get very cold.

"How much do you remember, Barry?"

"I remember everything, Jack."

"The murders?"

"Every detail. And you were right. At night, when I'm all alone in my cell, I abuse myself thinking about them. Spit and a fist are a poor substitute for a bleeding, screaming whore. But I have to make do until they let me out."

He made a kissy face and winked at me. My stomach rolled over, and I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.

"So there was no reason for this? Just bloodlust?"

"Just bloodlust? You say that like you're disappointed. What's a better reason for murder than that? Money? Revenge? Lust is so much purer."

"So you're a sociopath."

"Actually, no. I've had a lot of time in here to read, sort things out. According to the DSM IV, I suffer from disorganized episodic aggression. I feel empathy, I just choose to ignore it to get high."

"High on killing?"

"Headaches, Jack. Terrible headaches. Caused by the tumor, probably, but I've had them my whole life, and they tell me the tumor can't be more than a year old. Killing makes the pain go away. I figured out it has something to do with endorphin. Endogenous morphine. The body manufactures it to block pain, and it's a hundred times more powerful than an equivalent dose of heroin. Killing gives me an endorphin rush. At least, that's what I think. I'd like to ask all of these shrinks watching me 24-7, see what they think, but I've got to keep up appearances."

"So now that the tumor is gone?"

"Tumor doesn't matter, Jack. I'm addicted to killing."

He grinned, his eyes as black and lifeless as a shark's.

I stood up, not needing to hear any more. I got what I came for.

"Leaving so soon, Jack? But I haven't told you my plans yet."

"What plans?"

"For after they let me out. I'm going to be looking you up, Jack." He waggled his tongue at me, and began to rub his crotch. "We're going to have a real good time, Lieutenant. I got something special planned for you, and that fat partner of yours. I hated you before, because you wouldn't take me in Detective Division. Since you put me in this hellhole, I've grown to hate you even more. I'll show you, soon."

I turned my back on him, and tried to walk to the door without shaking too badly.

"Don't worry, Jack. It won't be right away. First I'm going to kill everyone in your life. Everyone you know and care about."

I pounded on the steel, harder than I intended.

"Give my best to your mom and boyfriend, Jack. Be seeing you soon."

I pounded again, and Carver opened up.

"You okay, Lieutenant?"

I nodded. But I wasn't okay. My hands were quaking, and I had an overwhelming urge to vomit.

"Jack?" Herb had concern in his eyes.

"He's faking, Herb. Faking big time. We can't let him get out."

"What happened in there? Do you have the tape?"

I held Benedict's eyes and grabbed his arms, squeezing hard.

"We can't let him get out, Herb. We can't. No matter what."

Chapter 26

"Open cell eleven."

"Opening cell eleven."

The electronic lock disengages with a clang, and the cell door opens. Fuller eyes the prison guard escorting him; the man is eight inches shorter, with a neck so thin Fuller could strangle him with one hand.

The skinny guard unlocks Fuller's ankle irons, while the second guard, a fat guy with a face like a bulldog, stands at the ready palming a can of pepper spray.

Keep looking tough, punk. If I wanted to, I could take away that mace and stick it so far up your ass your breath would smell like jalapenos.

"Thanks," Fuller says instead. He smiles, playing his role. The thin guy takes off his handcuffs, and Fuller enters his cell. It's tiny, cramped. A lidless steel shitter dominates one corner, next to a steel sink. In the other corner is a steel cot, a two-inch-thick cotton mattress resting on top.

There isn't enough room in here to do a decent push-up, so Fuller compromises, putting his palms on the cool concrete floor and his feet on the sink.

"One, two, three, four . . ."

He touches his chin to the floor with each tip, feeling the burn build up in his shoulders and chest. His face begins to turn red, and he smiles.

Jack's expression was priceless. I practically made her wet her panties.

"Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . ."

Fuller looks at the cot. There's a small slit in the mattress, along a seam, with more pieces of onion and some other things. Things that will produce dramatic court theatrics.

"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight--"

The lie detector tomorrow will be fun too. He still has the staple, secretly liberated from his attorney's paperwork. A staple is all he needs to pass with flying colors.

"Sixty-five, sixty-six . . ."

Everything is going his way. His bitch of a wife is dead, finally. He got his lawyer to pass on word to Rushlo to keep quiet -- and the little toady will no doubt follow orders. If all goes as planned, Fuller will be back out on the street soon -- probably in a few weeks. Then he'll pay Jack a visit, make good on his promise.

"Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one . . ."

Only one thing is bothering him. Though the doctors assure him his tumor is completely gone, he's still getting headaches. They aren't as sharp as before, but they've been increasing in intensity over the past few weeks.

"Hundred twenty, hundred twenty-one . . ."

So far, aspirin is helping. But he foresees a time when that won't be enough. He'll need to kill again. Soon.

"Hundred fifty."

Fuller's feet touch the floor and he stands and stretches, knuckles dragging across the ceiling. He's breathing hard. There's a metallic taste in his mouth -- he's bitten his tongue.

The taste is arousing.

After a minute's rest, he puts his feet back on the sink and begins another set of push-ups. His teeth work on the cut in his tongue, making it larger.

"Twenty, twenty-one . . ."

He closes his eyes, pretending the blood he's swallowing is Jack's.

Chapter 27

I dialed Libby from Benedict's car and gave her the short version. The excitement in her voice was obvious.

"I knew he was playing us!"

"We don't have evidence."

"But now that we know for sure, we'll get some. The polygraph examiner we've got is the best. He pegged Ted Bundy. He'll get Fuller too. You did good, Jack."

"Thanks."

Except I didn't feel like I did good. I felt like I'd just gotten my ass kicked.

"You want to be there? Tomorrow?"

"For the lie detector?"

"Sure. It'll keep him off guard."

I wanted to say no. I didn't want to be there. Fuller unearthed feelings I thought I'd buried.

Feelings of fear.

In crisis situations, cops need to have a certain amount of fear. It precedes adrenaline, which makes reactions faster. When I shot Fuller, months ago, I'd been afraid. But the fear worked for me then, heightening senses, forcing me to act automatically, as I'd been trained to do.

Now -- the sick feeling in my stomach, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, the runaway imagination -- did me no good at all, other than add to my pile of neuroses.

"Jack? You still there?"

"I just came back to work, Libby. I'm not sure what's going on tomorrow."

"The polygraph is at nine A.M., back at Division Eleven. I'll talk to Bains to clear some time for you."

"Thanks," I managed. "See you tomorrow, then."

Herb stopped at a light, squinted at me.

"Jack? You look sick."

"I'm fine."

"You let him get to you. Fuller."

I tried to smile. "Not a chance. I'm just tired, Herb. Nothing more."

The light turned green, but Benedict didn't go.

"I know you, Jack. You're not yourself."

Rather than answer, I played the role-reversal card.

"Me? You seem to be having the granddaddy of midlife crises, and refuse to speak a peep."

Someone behind us honked their horn.

"I'm not having a midlife crisis."

"Male menopause, then."

"That's not the case. Bernice and I are just heading in different directions."

"Different directions? Herb, you've been married for twenty years."

Herb turned away, facing the road.

"Maybe twenty years is too long."

Another honk. Herb hit the gas, squealing tires.

I closed my eyes and thought about yesterday, when my only concerns were what kind of pizza to order, when I'd be ready to make love again, and if I was becoming addicted to Ambien. My troubles seemed to have quadrupled overnight. And for the cherry on top, I got to deal with the very real possibility that a psycho would soon be out on the street, killing everyone I knew.

Herb and I didn't talk the rest of the drive back to the station. I went to my office, stared at the huge mound of paperwork that had grown on my desk during my absence, and then moved it aside to fill out my report.

After an hour of hunt and peck, I dropped off the report, and the recording, with Bains. Then I thought about getting started on my backlog, couldn't bring myself to do it, and called it a day.

Back at my apartment building, I was annoyed to hear piano music filling the hallway on my floor. Jazz, and someone playing it much too loudly. My mood was just foul enough to start banging on doors and flashing my badge, but when I discovered the source of the noise, I knew my badge wouldn't do much good.

"Mom?"

When I opened my door, the music hit me like a wind. I never liked jazz -- I preferred my music to have structure and balance. I also never liked piano, having been forced into two years of lessons by a mother who thought it built character.

The living room offered more unpleasant surprises. My couch faced a different direction than it had this morning. It now also had three pink throw pillows on it, which matched the new pink curtains on my windows.

I liked pink about as much as jazz piano.

I hit the Off button on the stereo.

"Mom?"

"In the bedroom, dear."

I took a deep breath, blew it out, and walked into my bedroom. My mother was hanging a painting on my wall -- one of those framed prints available at department stores for under twenty bucks. The subject was a tabby cat, with a pink bow on its collar, wrestling with a ball of yarn.

"Hello, Jacqueline. What happened to Midori?"

"Midori?"

"Midori Kawamura. The CD that was playing."

"It was too loud. The neighbors were complaining."

"Philistines. She's one of the greatest jazz pianists on the planet."

"I don't like jazz pianists."

"Perhaps you suffer from pianist envy."

I was too annoyed to smile at that.

"Mom, why is my sofa turned around?"

"You had it facing the wall. Now it's facing the windows. Do you like the pillows?"

"I don't like pink."

"You never liked anything girlish. When you were six, all of your friends played with dolls, and I had to buy you toy soldiers. What do you think of your new picture?"

She motioned, with both hands, at the cat with the yarn.

"Adorable," I deadpanned.

"Reminded me so much of your cat, I had to buy it. Frisky? Where are you?"

Mr. Friskers bounded into the room, onto the bed, and into my mother's arms.

"Frisky?" I asked.

"Look at him, isn't he a ringer for the cat in the picture?"

She held Mr. Friskers up, and he did, indeed, resemble his framed counterpart -- right down to the pink bow my mother had tied around his neck.

"A dead ringer, Mom. Can you take off the bow? You're emasculating him."

"Nonsense. Frisky loves pink, unlike some people. Right, Frisky?"

She stroked his chin, and the damn cat purred at her. I sat on the bed, which my mom had made -- much better than I ever had. Not so much as a wrinkle anywhere.

"How'd you do all of this?"

"Alan took me out, the dear man. He'll be back soon with the plant."

"Plant?"

"I asked him to pick up a floor plant. This place is so sterile and lifeless. You need a plant."

Resistance was futile, so I kicked off my shoes and shrugged out of my clothing.

"Jacqueline? You're not mad, are you?"

"No, Mom. I just had a tough day."

She set the cat down and put her hand on my head, stroking my hair.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Maybe later. I need a shower."

My mom smiled, nodded. Then she limped out of the bedroom.

A minute later, the jazz came back on.

I slammed the door to the bathroom and set the shower dial to poach. Ten minutes under the needle spray went a long way toward washing the Fuller meeting off of me. I shaved, deep-conditioned my hair, and used the shower mirror to do some serious eyebrow plucking.

I was wrapped in a towel, moisturizing, when the bathroom door opened.

"Jacqueline? There's a strange man at the door."

A jolt of panic gripped me, then let go when I realized it couldn't be Fuller.

"Does he have red hair?"

"Yes."

"That's Latham, Mom. My boyfriend. Didn't he use his key?"

"He tried to. I had the chain on."

"Can you let him in and tell him I'll be right there?"

Mom gave me a small frown, but nodded. I slipped on my bathrobe and wound the towel around my wet hair, turban-style.

Latham and Mom stood in the kitchen, Latham in his work clothes -- gray pants, red tie, gray jacket. Mom stared at him like he was something she'd stepped in.

"Hi, Jack. I thought I'd stop by, take you out for a bite."

My mother smiled politely. "We have plans already."

I shot my mom with laser eyes, but she pretended not to notice.

"We weren't planning anything special, Latham." I smiled smoothly. "We'd love to have you join us. Right, Mom?"

Mom managed to fake an enthusiastic smile. "Absolutely. It would be just lovely, Nathan."

"Latham," he and I said in unison.

"I'm sure Alan won't mind either."

Shit. How'd I forget about Alan?

"Your boyfriend?" Latham ventured, looking at Mom.

"Jacqueline's husband," she answered, primly.

"Ex-husband. He was good enough to accompany Mom into town."

"He's helping me with the transition. Wonderful man."

"Transition?" Latham raised an eyebrow at me. I felt like going back to my bedroom and hiding under a pillow.

"Mom has decided to move in with me after all."

Latham, to his credit, barely flinched. I held his hand, gave it a hard squeeze that I hope conveyed everything I was feeling.

He didn't squeeze back.

"Well, that's wonderful. Jack has wanted that for a long time. She speaks the world of you."

"How sweet. It's a shame she never mentioned you."

I gave Latham another hard squeeze, and then released him to escort my mother before this got worse.

"Excuse us just a moment, Latham. Girl talk."

I steered Mom into the bedroom and shut the door.

"What is it, Jacqueline?"

"Cut the BS, Mom. You're acting horrible."

"Horrible? How?"

I raised an index finger, in scolding mode.

"I'm serious. I happen to love this guy. If you keep--"

"You love him? You never told me you loved him."

"I never had the chance, Mom. You only started taking my calls recently, and then the conversation has mostly been about you."

I regretted it as soon as I said it, and my mother's reaction held no surprises. She seemed to grow smaller before my very eyes.

"You don't want me here, do you?"

"Mom . . ."

"I would have never chosen to come up here if I'd known you were in love with this man. Has he asked you to move in with him?"

"Mom, we can talk about all of this later."

"If you love him, why did you kiss Alan this morning?"

It just kept getting better.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was faking."

"That was a mistake. Mom, look, I've had a terrible day, I just want to get dressed and go out to eat. Can you please, please, go out there and make friends with Latham?"

"I'll do my best, dear. I'm suddenly not up for conversation."

I bit my lower lip, wondering how this could possibly get any worse.

Then I heard the front door open.

"Mary? I've got the plant."

Alan. I hurried over, preparing myself for damage control. Latham eyed me as I walked up.

"I should have called."

"I should have told you. We'll get through this. Be brave." I pecked him on the cheek, but he didn't offer me anything in the way of nonverbal encouragement.

Alan had a large floor plant in his hands, something with long green pointy fronds. He set it down, smiled at me, then noticed Latham and the smile vanished.

"I didn't mean to barge in."

"Alan, this is Latham Conger, my boyfriend. Latham, this is Alan Daniels, my ex-husband."

Neither moved to shake hands, and I watched them size each other up. If they'd been dogs, I would have expected each of them to lift a leg and start marking territory.

"Hello, Alan! What a lovely fern!" Mom made a show of limping up to him and kissing him.

I glanced at Latham. He was staring at his watch.

"So." I clapped my hands together and put on a big fake smile. "Who's up for pizza?"

Chapter 28

The two slices of pizza I managed to choke down sat like rocks in my stomach. Neither Latham nor Alan had said more than ten words during dinner, having expended most of their energy trying to ignore each other.

That left my mother to dominate the conversation, and she was on her third drink, inhibitions falling away by the sip. She hadn't mentioned the kiss yet, but it was only a matter of time.

"Spicy." Mom smacked her lips. "When you get older, your tastebuds -- well -- don't taste. But a good bloody Mary with a healthy dose of hot sauce makes this tired old tongue dance a jitterbug. Plus it's so much fun to order a drink with my name in it."

"Yeah," I said. "It's a hoot."

"Are you in town long, Alan?" Latham asked.

"I'm here until Mary settles in."

"So that's how long? A week? Two?"

"As long as it takes."

Latham played with his drink straw, spearing at the ice.

"Don't you have a job you need to get back to?"

Alan folded his arms -- one of his defense postures.

"I'm a freelance writer. I'm not tied to an office job, stuck in that nine-to-five rut, making my employer rich from my efforts. But I'm sure it's not like that at all in the accounting world."

"I don't mind nine-to-five. It pays the bills."

"Boring, though, isn't it? Jack usually falls for creative types."

"Maybe she realized how badly that's worked for her in the past, and decided she needed a change."

I raised my hand. "Does anyone want to hear about my day? The crazy guy I put behind bars threatened to kill me."

I'd intended to provoke sympathy, but Latham took that as a cue to assert dominance. He put his arm around me, like we were drinking buddies.

"Stay at my place tonight, Jack."

"Jack doesn't look too thrilled there, Latham. Maybe you've begun to bore her already."

"Why don't you go run home and write about it?"

"Okay, guys. Enough." I pulled away from Latham and stood up. "You're all acting like jerks." I glanced at my mom, to let her know I included her in the statement.

"I'll drive you home." Latham stood up. So did Alan.

"I'll drive myself home." I dug into my pocket, threw some bills on the table. Both Alan and Latham fell all over themselves, trying to give me my money back. I left them there, heading for the front door, stepping out into the cold Chicago night air.

Home wasn't an option. I needed time to think. A Checker cab was at the stoplight, and I yelled to it and climbed in.

"Where you headed?"

Good question. After tonight, I was willing to swear off men forever. Parents too. And police work. Where was I headed? Unemployed orphan spinsterhood.

I settled for Joe's Pool Hall.

The cab spit me out in front, and I beelined to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and scoped the action.

As usual, Joe's had enough secondhand smoke swirling around to cause cancer in laboratory animals. All twelve tables were in use, but I gave up being shy for my fortieth birthday, and got on the board for pickup games.

Four beers and two hours later, I'd done considerable damage to both my liver and the competition. Pool offered a refuge from my problems, and sinking ball after ball put me into an almost zenlike state. I'd forgotten all about Alan, Latham, Mom, Fuller, Herb, my job, my apartment, my insomnia, my life.

Then the balance shifted. The alcohol that had once calmed my nerves, now made me sloppy. I lost three games in a row, and decided to call it quits.

The night had gotten colder, and my jacket wasn't enough to keep the chill out.

Mom snored on the couch. My machine had eight messages on it, but I didn't feel up to dealing with them. I got undressed, curled up fetal on my bed, took my nightly sleeping pill, and cried softly to myself until it kicked in and ushered me into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Chapter 29

They were torturing me with a horrible beeping sound, playing it over and over until it drove me to the brink of madness, and I couldn't get away and I couldn't make it stop, and finally something registered in my head and I opened my eyes and glanced groggily at my alarm clock.

Irritating little sound. But I suppose the pleasant melody of whales singing or frogs croaking wouldn't wake someone up.

I turned it off, and sat up, dizzily, in bed. My head hurt. I yawned, my jaw clicking from overnight calcium deposits, and then spent a minute trying to get my bearings.

Sleeping pill hangover. I forced my feet out of bed, thought about doing some sit-ups, touched the scars on my belly and decided I wasn't ready yet, and took a cool shower.

The soap, which promised to open my eyes, didn't. Neither did the cold water. When I got out, I was just as sleepy, and shivering as well.

"No more," I said to my face in the mirror. Along with making waking up one of the labors of Hercules, the pills also did wondrous things for my complexion. I hadn't had a pimple since junior prom, but now, staring at me like a third eye on my forehead, was a blemish.

I played fast and loose with my concealer, slapped on the rest of my face, and went to the kitchen to dump yesterday's coffee and make a fresh pot.

My mom, whom I knew to be an early bird, hadn't gotten up yet. I went to check on her.

She lay on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Absolutely still.

I moved closer, looking for the telltale rise and fall of her chest, but I couldn't see under the blanket. Closer still, holding my breath so I could hear her breathing.

I didn't hear a thing.

I considered panicking, realized I was being silly, and bent down over her, reaching for her neck.

Her skin was warm, and her carotid flittered with her heartbeat.

"Are you taking my pulse?"

I jumped back, almost screaming in fright.

"Mom! Jeez, you scared me."

My mother pinned me with her mother-eyes.

"You thought I was dead, and were taking my pulse."

I made a show of looking at my watch.

"I gotta run, Mom. I'll call you later."

"When did you get home last night?"

"Jesus, Mom. I'm forty-six years old. I don't have a curfew."

"No, but you have people who care about you, and it's selfish to make them worry."

Rather than argue, I went back into the kitchen for coffee. A quick caller ID check saw I had four calls from Latham, and four from the Raphael hotel -- Alan. I didn't bother playing the messages.

I'd purposely added less water, so the coffee had a bigger kick. I added an ice cube to my mug so I could gulp it down quicker.

"Are you okay, Jacqueline?"

Mom had the blanket around her shoulders. She looked like Yoda.

"No, Mom, I'm not. And you really didn't help matters yesterday."

"I'm sorry for that. You know I love Alan like a son. Call me a foolish old woman, but I thought, you know, if I made him bring me here--"

"That we'd realize we still loved each other? He left me, Mom. Don't you remember how much he hurt me?"

"You hurt him too, honey."

"He's the one that left."

"You didn't give him much of a choice, working eighty-hour weeks, never taking a vacation."

I poured more coffee.

"You were a cop, Mom. You know how it is."

"And I regret it. All of those long hours. Working Christmas. I should have been spending more time with you. You practically raised yourself."

My veneer cracked.

"Mom, you were my hero. I never resented your job. You were out there doing good."

"I should have been at home doing good. Instead, I screwed you up, made you think nothing should stand in the way of your career."

"I'm not screwed up. I'm one of the highest ranking female cops in Chicago."

"And I'm the only woman in my bingo group that doesn't have grandchildren."

Mom saw my reaction, and immediately backpedaled.

"Jacqueline, I didn't mean that. It just came out."

"I'll be home late." I walked past her.

"Honey, I'm sorry."

I ignored her, grabbed my coat, and closed the door a bit louder than necessary.

If the anger didn't wake me up, the weather did. Cold, with stinging, freezing drizzle that attacked like biting flies.

I left the window cracked on the drive to Cook County Jail, letting the wind numb my face. The cell phone rang, but I ignored it.

Fuller's polygraph test was set for twenty minutes from now, and I needed to mentally prepare for seeing him again.

Chapter 30

Fuller works the staple under the nail of his big toe, digging it in deep.

There's very little blood, but the pain is electric.

With a quarter inch of metal left protruding, he puts on his sock and shoe.

It's lying time.

The guards come to get him, go through the ritual of putting on the restraints. Fuller's head hurts, but he doesn't ask for aspirin. A pain reliever wouldn't be in his best interests at this time.

They march him past other cells. Some cajole him, call out insults. He ignores them, staying focused on the task ahead.

The room is the same as before. Steel doors. Two chairs. A table, with the lie detector machine on it. Fuller is put in the chair, facing away from the machine.

Two of his doctors come into the room: shrinks, in suits. His lawyer, Eric Garcia, a Hollywood hotshot who seeks out high-profile cases so he can show off his five-thousand-dollar suits on television. The assistant DA, Libby something, who looks particularly tasty today in a pale pink jacket and matching skirt. The examiner, a different guy than before, round and soft and wearing a freaking white lab coat, for god's sake.

There's also a pleasant surprise: Jack Daniels and her fat partner, Herb Benedict, who doesn't seem as fat as he had a few months ago.

"Looking good, Detective Benedict. Diet seems to be working well."

"Please, Barry, no talking to them." Garcia pats Fuller on the shoulder.

The polygraph examiner rolls up Fuller's sleeve, attaches the blood pressure cuff. He puts sticky probes on Fuller's fingers to measure changes in electrical resistance resulting from sweat, and three elastic bands around his chest to record breathing.

"Ready to begin when you are, Barry," the examiner says, standing in front of him.

Barry smiles. "Let her rip."

"We're going to start by calibrating the machine. I'd like you to pick a card from this deck, and look at it, but don't tell me what it is. Then I'm going to ask you questions about the card, and I want you to answer no to all of my questions, even if it is a lie."

He holds out a deck. Barry picks a card, looks at it. A Queen of Diamonds. He smiles again, knowing that the deck is rigged; they're all Queens of Diamonds. This is to make him believe the machine is infallible, to make him even more nervous.

"Is the card black?"

"No."

"Is the card red?"

"No."

"Is the card a face card?"

"No."

"Is the card a ten?"

"No."

And on it goes. Fuller acts normally, and doesn't try to control his body's responses in the least. When the examiner finally says, "The card is a Queen of Diamonds," Fuller laughs, genuinely.

"That's terrific! Better than a magic show."

"As you can see, Barry, the machine can pick out lies rather easily. If you lie, we'll catch it."

"That's why I'm here. To show I'm telling the truth."

"We'll proceed, then. Please answer yes or no to the following questions. Is your name Barry Fuller?"

"Yes."

"Is the world flat?"

"No."

"Have you ever stolen something?"

Fuller knows this is a control question, one that sets the bar. The polygraph records the body's responses to the questions. The examiner understands that being accused about a crime will cause the breathing to increase, the palms to sweat, and the blood pressure to rise. The yes and no answers are irrelevant. The examiner is looking for the four markers on the scrolling piece of paper to jump when the subject is stressed.

So Fuller makes them jump. He curls his big toe, jabbing the staple deeper into the nail. His pain level spikes, his vital signs react, and the markers do their fast squiggle thing.

"No," he answers.

"Is the White House in Washington, D.C.?"

Fuller eases up on the toe pressure.

"Yes."

"Do you remember killing Eileen Hutton?"

"No."

Fuller realizes that his lie causes some spikes, but the spikes won't be as high as the spikes created by the stealing question, when he caused himself pain. The examiner will have to conclude he's telling the truth.

Easy as pie. The trick to beating a polygraph isn't staying calm. It's knowing when to act stressed.

"Have you ever lied on a job application?"

Control question. Toe pressure.

"No."

"Is a basketball square?"

Ease up.

"No."

"Did you remember cutting off Davi McCormick's arms?"

No toenail pressure.

"No."

"Have you ever cheated on your income tax?"

Force that staple in.

"No."

"Do you consider yourself an honest man?"

Another control. The staple feels like an electric wire, juicing him with pain.

"Yes."

"Did you kill Colin Andrews?"

Release the pressure.

"I don't remember. I've been told I did."

And so it goes on, for another half an hour. He takes his time. Makes it look good. Lets his body tell the tale.

"Are you faking this amnesia?"

Fuller smiles at Jack. He winks at her.

"No, I'm not."

"Thank you, Barry. We're finished here today."

Garcia walks over. "What were the results?"

"I'll need time to examine them thoroughly before I can give you my opinion."

"What's your preliminary opinion?"

"I wouldn't feel comfortable giving that. I'll wait until trial."

"Go ahead, Adam." Libby walks up as well. "Tell us your initial impression. No matter what side it falls on, you'll likely be subpoenaed anyway."

The plump man takes off his glasses, polishes them on the end of his sweater.

"In twenty years of administering polygraphs, I've never seen such a clear-cut case of honesty."

Fuller has to bite his lower lip to keep from giggling.

"This man is telling the truth. I'd stake my reputation on it."

Fuller's lawyer laughs, pats him on the shoulder.

Jack's look is worth a million dollars. Fuller mouths the words "see you soon" at her, and blows her a kiss.

The examiner removes all of the probes and sensors, and everyone begins to file out. Fuller's lawyer wants a moment with him, and makes the guards wait outside.

"This shouldn't even go to trial, Barry. The judge should have thrown it out."

"We're doing good, right?"

"Good? We're golden. After the experts testify, there won't be a doubt in anyone's mind. You'll be back on the street in no time."

"I want to testify."

Garcia loses the smile.

"You don't have to say a word, Barry. You can let the evidence speak for you."

"I want to."

"I don't think it's a wise . . ."

"I don't care. I have to speak my piece. It's important to me."

Another pat on the shoulder. "I understand, big guy. They'll be rough on you, but we can prepare you for that."

"I'll do fine."

"I'm sure you will, Barry. I'm sure you will."

Chapter 31

When I left the prison I was shaking, and couldn't decide if it was from cold, anger, or fear.

Since Benedict and I arrived in separate cars, we didn't have a chance to touch base after the polygraph. Herb seemed even more distant than yesterday, not carrying our exchange any further than "Good morning." I back-burnered my problems and confronted Herb when we got back to the station.

"I left Bernice."

"You left Bernice?"

"Last night. Not that big of an adjustment, really. I've been sleeping on the couch for the past month, anyway. At least the Motel 6 has a big bed I can stretch out in, and I've got a 'no nagging' sign on the door. It's refreshing, waking up without having to hear all of my problems pointed out to me."

"Herb, I'm sorry."

"No need. This was a long time coming, believe me."

"Are you okay?"

Stupid question. Of course he wasn't okay.

"Fine. I missed breakfast, though." He smiled, and it was an unpleasant thing. "First time in twenty-two years. Want to go grab a bite?"

I nodded. Herb drove, recklessly, to a diner on Clark, the kind of place that served pancakes twenty-four hours a day and boasted "fountain creations" on their storefront sign. Nothing on the menu was over six dollars, and our waitress moved so slowly I was tempted to take her pulse. I got two eggs, sunny-side up.

"Comes with toast," our server yawned.

I shrugged.

Herb ordered a ham and cheddar cheese omelette, with a side of bacon and two sides of sausage, hold the toast.

"This diet is killing me."

"I bet. I think I can actually hear your arteries harden."

He leaned in close, conspiratorially.

"It's the starch. I thought eating all the fatty foods I wanted would be great, but right now I would kill for a sandwich made out of french fries and macaroni."

"They've got that on the menu. It comes with a free angiogram."

Herb added a ninth packet of artificial sweetener to his coffee and stirred it with his fork.

"How are you doing, Jack?"

"You don't want to know."

"I do. Maybe it will help me take my mind off my problems."

I gave it to him. He paused, between noshing on fatty meat, to impart this bit of wisdom: "Damn, Jack, you're a mess."

I didn't feel like eating, but I forced the toast down because Herb's constant staring at it made me edgy.

"Thanks, partner. Misery loves company, I guess."

"Are you still in love with Alan?"

"I don't think I ever stopped loving him."

"Does he want you back?"

"I think so."

"Do you love Latham?"

"Yes."

"You're going to have to choose."

"I know."

"Who are you going to choose?"

"I don't know."

"Who do you love more?"

"I don't know."

"Are you going to eat your eggs?"

"I don't know."

"At least that's a decision I can help you with."

Herb did a quick plate-to-plate egg transfer, his fork a stainless steel blur. Apparently, separation hadn't hurt his appetite.

"What do we do about Fuller?" Yolk clung to his mustache.

I was happy to change the subject.

"I have a plan."

"Tell."

"Fuller mentioned to me that he kills to make the headaches go away."

"I read the medical. The doctors don't think the tumor is any older than a year or two."

"Right. But Fuller said he's always had headaches, his whole life."

Herb nodded. "So maybe he's killed before."

"We dig into his past, try to link him to an old crime."

"How do we do that?"

"Did you forget? We're police officers. Skilled professionals who solve crimes for a living."

"What if there's no crime to solve?"

"Then we have to find one."

I picked up the check, and when we got back to the station we went to work. We started with the department's file on Fuller. On paper, he seemed to be a good cop. Above-average arrest record. Showed up for work. Did well at the police academy, scoring high on all of his tests.

Prior to his law enforcement career, Fuller had been an NFL player. Herb pulled at that thread, while I traced his life back even further. Fuller went to Southern Illinois University, on a football scholarship. Majored in criminology. Minored in psych. Heavy subjects, for a jock.

A look at his four-year curriculum uncovered another interesting tidbit: Fuller was a member of the Drama Club, and had actually played Biff in a campus production of Death of a Salesman.

In the file Libby had put together on Fuller, there were no noteworthy incidents in his college career. He stayed out of trouble. Kept a B average. Apparently, he met Holly in college, and married her a year after graduation.

I wasted fifty cents of the taxpayers' money on a call to information, and was soon talking to the chief of police in Carbondale, a man named Shelby Duncan. He had a low voice and talked slowly, deliberately.

"During those years we had two unsolveds. One was a townie, sixty-two-year-old male, robbed and beaten to death outside of a 7-11. Another was a student, nineteen-year-old male, fell out a frat house window. BOC was triple the going rate, but the case has been kept open."

"How about missing persons?"

I heard fingers on a keyboard.

"One hundred and thirty-eight."

The high number surprised me.

"It that normal?"

"We're a college town, Lieutenant. Twenty thousand students attend classes every day. Some of them drop out, and don't tell anyone where they're going."

I asked if he could fax me the reports. He did me one better and offered the password to his database so I could peruse them on my own.

Herb leaned over. "What do you got?"

"He studied psychology and criminology in college, and also did some acting. Might come in handy, if you ever wanted to beat a lie detector. I've also got over a hundred MP files, which I'll try to sync up with Fuller's academic schedule. You?"

"Fuller's NFL career was mostly spent warming the bench. Constant knee injuries -- in fact, his left knee is completely artificial. I'm surprised he could pass the department physical."

"No missing cheerleaders?"

"I talked to one of the assistant coaches. No problems at all. The guy was a team player, no obvious difficulties. Fuller was disappointed that he couldn't contribute more. Coach said he was a good guy."

"Fooled them just like he fooled us."

Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated "No Carbs." I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.

"So, what now?" Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn't pretty.

"We get started on this list. You want to take A through L?"

"I guess."

I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.

I hit the computer.

Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb's offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o'clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub -- she'd been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn't bother informing the Carbondale PD.

Lucy didn't remember Fuller at all.

I dialed Benedict, and he'd had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn't seem to have any clear connection to them.

It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn't seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.

I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.

"Says he's your husband."

I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?

"Can someone escort him up?"

My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.

I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.

"Hi, Jack."

I didn't look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.

"What is it, Alan? I'm busy."

"I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn't have acted like that."

"I accept your apology. Now if you don't mind . . ."

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

The words hurt. I stayed silent.

"I shouldn't have come to Chicago. I didn't mean to intrude on your life. I guess . . . I don't know . . . I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong."

"Were you wrong?"

His eyes softened. "Yes."

What do you say to a man whom you cursed ten thousand times, begged the universe to make him understand what a jerk he was, and then he finally agrees with you?

"Have a safe trip back, Alan."

His eyes got teary. Maybe mine did too.

"Can we be friends, Jack? Stay in touch?"

Don't play with fire, Jack. You got burned the last time.

"That's probably not a good idea."

He chewed his lower lip.

"You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once."

"I know."

"I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves." He tried to smile. "Have a nice life, Jack."

"You too, Alan."

He walked out.

The first time he left me, I didn't try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I'd tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?

Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?

"Alan . . . wait."

He turned, eyes hopeful.

"Yeah?"

Looking at him, I knew.

"You're wearing my jacket."

Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.

I went to him.

Our hands met.

"Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up."

"So do I."

"Maybe we can work out some kind of joint custody."

"Maybe."

"Can we discuss it over dinner?"

"That might be best."

I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.

"Can I call you? After work?"

"No. The work can wait."

"Excuse me?"

"The work can wait, Alan. Let's go."

We didn't go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.

Twice.

Chapter 32

I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.

Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven't worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other's buttons.

I'd called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn't be home, without giving her details.

She figured them out anyway.

"I'll let Nathan know where you are if he calls."

"His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won't. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell."

Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.

The ceiling had no answers for me.

I didn't have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.

At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.

It was horrible.

I'd had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn't a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.

I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.

At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.

"Jack? That you?"

"I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast."

"You sound terrible. Are you okay?"

"No. I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. It's probably just a panic attack. I don't have my damn sleeping pills and I'm bouncing off the walls."

"Why don't you have your pills?"

Moment of truth time.

"I'm in Alan's hotel room."

I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.

"You still love him."

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?

"You need some time apart, to figure things out?"

"Yes." I was crying now.

"A week? A month?"

"I don't know, Latham."

"I understand."

Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?

"I might never come back, Latham."

"You have to choose what's right for you, Jack."

"Aren't you mad at me?"

"I love you. I want you to be happy."

I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.

"There's no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!"

"Call me when you've made a decision, Jack."

He hung up.

I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.

I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.

Alan knocked on the door.

"Jack? Are you okay?"

He let himself in, sat down next to me.

"Dammit," I cursed, rubbing my eyes. "Dammit, dammit, dammit. I'm not this weak."

Alan laughed.

"Why are you laughing?"

He put his arms around me.

"You're not weak, Jack. You're human."

"And that's funny to you?"

"I always suspected it. I just never thought I'd see it."

He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.

If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn't get overwhelmed.

Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn't be allowed out.

After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.

One thing at a time.

Chapter 33

"Who's there?"

No answer.

I squinted, trying to see through the darkness of my bedroom. My digital clock displayed 3:35 in bright red; the only light in the room.

I sat up and reached for the lamp by my bedside. Clicked it on.

Nothing happened.

I reached higher and felt that the lightbulb was missing.

Carefully, slowly, I eased open my nightstand drawer, seeking out the .38 I put in there every night.

The gun was gone.

Something in the darkness moved.

"Mom? Alan?"

No answer.

I breathed in deep, held it, straining to hear any sound.

A faint chuckle came from nearby.

My digital clock went out.

The hair rose on the back of my neck. The darkness was complete, a thick inky cloth. Sweat trickled down my spine.

The closet.

"I've got a gun!" I yelled to the darkness.

Another chuckle. Low and soft.

Fuller.

Another movement. Closer this time.

My heart pumped ice through my veins. Where were Mom and Alan? What had he done to them?

How do I make it out of here alive?

My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don't look back.

I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.

I screamed, and woke myself up.

Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the .38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I'd just completed the last leg of a triathlon.

"Jack?"

Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the gun.

"What's happening?"

"Just a bad dream."

"You're going to shoot a bad dream?"

I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the drawer. My fingers wouldn't let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.

I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.

I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.

"Morning, Mom."

Mom wore a pink flannel nightgown with a cat stitched on the front. She sat at the breakfast bar, sipping out of a mug, you guessed it, with a cat on it.

"Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty."

"Court." I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. "You okay?"

"This cold weather is affecting my hip."

"It's got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on 'broil.'"

"My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it's freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets."

I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.

"Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?"

"Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I'd hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know."

"Why not invite him here?"

"He's retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn't ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates."

"He can stay with us."

Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.

"Really?"

"Sure. If he doesn't mind sharing the sofa bed." I winked at her.

"Well, I think I'll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing."

I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan's health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called "I Can't Believe It's Not Cancer."

"Thanksgiving is next week." I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. "Invite him over for that."

"That's a wonderful idea. I'll call him now."

I took a bite, then spit the mouthful into my hand.

"What the hell is this?"

"Alan's soy bread. He has that gluten allergy."

I tossed it in the garbage. "It tastes like a sour sponge."

"Steer clear of his breakfast cereal. Tofutos, they're called. Beans and milk aren't a tasty combo. And whatever you do, don't let him make you anything in that juicer. He actually forced me to drink a celery sprout smoothie."

Mom got on the phone, and I finished my coffee and headed to the criminal courthouse at 26th and California.

Someone had forgotten to tell Chicago it was still fall, because a light snow dusted everything and I almost broke my neck on a patch of sidewalk ice.

My car started on the second try, and I played how-slow-can-we-drive-and-still-move-forward with my fellow Chicagoans. The first snowfall of the season and everyone seems to forget, en masse, how to drive.

I was late getting to the trial. The courthouse, a squat square building, had free underground parking for city employees. Heated. I took an escalator up to the main floor, bypassed the line at the metal detector with a flash of my star, and took the second group of elevators to the twenty-seventh floor.

Court had already begun, and the tiny room was crammed full to bursting. I shouldered my way through the crowd and sat next to Libby, who wore a lavender Vanderbilt jacket and skirt like it had been designed for her.

Her co-counsel, a brown-haired, twenty-something prosecutor named Noel Penaflor, had Phil Blasky on the stand. Phil had on an ill-fitting suit and tried his best to explain, in layman's terms, the results of Eileen Hutton's autopsy.

". . . thoracic cavity eviscerated and . . ."

I tuned him out, trying to organize my thoughts.

I didn't look at Fuller.

As the litany of atrocities ensued, Noel introduced pictures of Eileen as evidence. First came pictures of her with family and friends. Then came the autopsy photos.

As expected, this caused a general uproar in the courtroom. But no reaction was more impressive than Fuller's.

He vomited all over the defense team's table.

Chapter 34

A twenty-minute recess ensued, and the courtroom cleared.

Libby seethed.

"That son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, didn't he? How the hell did he do it?"

I shrugged. "Maybe he swallowed some ipecac, or something else to make him sick. Or maybe he can vomit on cue."

"Have you ever seen that done before?"

I knew what Libby was asking; could I somehow discredit the vomit episode through testimony?

"Sorry. I've never seen it."

She and Noel spent some time bantering back and forth. I went back into court and watched a janitor spritz the table with a disinfectant that smelled like oranges.

The trial progressed. Noel finished up with Blasky, which was followed by a brief cross-examination by Garcia. No redirect, and Blasky was excused and my name got called.

I took the stand and tried to keep the trembling under control.

Noel walked me through my testimony, and I gave a recount of the case, trying to remain professional and in control. The prosecution established me as not only a credit to my profession, but a hero as well.

I kept the dry spots to a minimum, elicited a few chuckles from the jury, and at the end of my statement repeated my encounter with Fuller at the jailhouse.

"So the defendant admitted that he was lying about the amnesia?"

"He did. And he said when he got out, he was going to kill again."

"Anyone in particular?"

"Me." My voice cracked when I said it. "He said he was going to kill me, and my partner, Herb."

Noel nodded at me, and I got a look of approval from Libby.

"Your witness." Noel took his seat.

Garcia, plump and confident, approached me smiling.

"Lt. Daniels, you mentioned you've been on the police force for twenty years, correct?"

"Yes."

"How many of those years have you been seeing a psychiatrist?"

"Objection. Relevance."

Garcia smiled at the judge. "I'm simply bringing into question the lieutenant's reliability as a witness."

Libby stood up. "Your honor, the very fact that Lt. Daniels has been a member of the CPD for twenty years is enough to establish reliability. It is also mandatory policy after a shooting for a police officer to receive counseling."

"Withdrawn." Eric smiled. "And I'd like to thank the assistant state's attorney for establishing that, as a member of the Chicago Police Department, an officer must surely have his mental faculties in order. Lt. Daniels, how long did you work with Barry Fuller?"

"Two years."

"And during those two years, what kind of impression had you formed of him?"

"I didn't know him personally."

"Professionally, then?"

"He did his job, as far as I knew. I never had any problems with him . . . until I had to shoot him."

That got a chuckle from the peanut gallery.

"Tell me, Lieutenant, how a twenty-year veteran, a hero who was responsible for bringing a heinous serial killer to justice last year, failed to realize the suspect she was chasing was working side by side with her all along?"

"Officer Fuller knows police procedure. Because he knows our methods, he knew how to avoid detection."

"And did that bother you, him avoiding capture?"

"Of course it bothered me. It's my job to catch murderers, and he was out on the streets, murdering people."

"Did it bother you beyond a professional capacity? Didn't it, in fact, get personal?"

"I keep my personal and professional opinions separate."

"Even though Barry is one of your own? You don't hold him in particular disdain, on a personal level?"

"No, I don't. My disdain is purely professional."

Another chuckle.

"Lieutenant, you testified earlier that, during your visit to Barry Fuller at Cook County jail, Mr. Fuller threatened you."

"Yes."

"During your conversation with him on that date, do you believe that you remained calm and professional?"

"Yes."

"Not personal?"

"No."

"Tell me, Lieutenant, is this your voice?"

He pulled a cassette recorder out of his pocket and hit the Play button. The female voice that emanated was both high-pitched and vicious.

"Drop the act, Barry. I know you're lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit."

Both Noel and Libby screamed out objections, but my recorded voice could be heard above them, the murmur of the jury, and the sound of Judge Taylor banging her gavel.

"Objection, Your Honor! There's no foundation for this tape. This wasn't previously disclosed at the pre-trial hearing."

"Your Honor, the State had prior knowledge of this tape, and they failed to give this to us in discovery. Full disclosure goes both ways."

Libby made a face. "Foundation, Your Honor."

Garcia smiled. "Witness credibility, Judge. Lt. Daniels has previously stated she clearly separates personal and professional opinion. The tape is a gentle reminder of her true opinion."

"Privacy law, Your Honor. Lt. Daniels had no prior knowledge this tape would be used in evidence."

"But she did have prior knowledge of the tape's existence, Your Honor. In fact, she's the one who created it."

Judge Taylor turned to me. "Is that true, Lieutenant?"

"Yes."

"I'll allow it."

Garcia held up the recorder.

"Tape A for identification. Authentication by Lt. Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Lt. Daniels, was that indeed your voice on that tape recording, made during your visit to the Cook County jail on October twentieth of this year, while interviewing the defendant, Barry Fuller?"

I felt ready to throw up myself.

"Yes. But that was taken out of context. There's more."

"I'd be happy to play the tape in its entirety. Let the record show that Tape A was identified and has been entered into evidence. Proceed."

After a brief moment of rewinding, the courtroom filled with my recorded voice.

In context, I came off even worse. Fuller's sobbing denial, and my escalating anger and accusations, destroyed my credibility.

The tape ended with Fuller asking me if I was wearing a wire.

"What happened after the tape was turned off, Lieutenant?"

"That's when Fuller said he really remembered everything, and would kill me when he was released."

"Why is it I expected you to say that? Even in view of your unmitigated, and very personal, hatred of my client, a wretched victim of a personality-altering brain tumor. I'm sure when he takes the stand he'll have a different account of what happened after the recorder was turned off. No further questions."

"Redirect?" Judge Taylor asked.

Libby stood.

"Lt. Daniels, why were you so hostile to the defendant in that tape?"

"It's standard police technique. I was trying to get him angry at me, so he would talk."

"And he did talk, after the tape was turned off?"

"Yes. Why else would he have asked me to turn off the tape?"

Libby turned to the jury. "Indeed. Why would he have wanted that tape shut off, if only to say something he didn't want recorded? No more questions."

"You may step down, Lieutenant."

Good recovery, Libby. But as I left the stand I noticed disgust on more than a few faces in the jury box. I was no longer the hero.

When I sat down, I glanced over at Fuller for the first time all day.

He was staring at me, and our eyes locked. His face was a study in sadness. He let out a big dramatic sigh, for the jury's benefit. Playing it to the hilt.

The judge broke for lunch, and I kept my composure long enough to get to the bathroom and splash some water on my face.

Libby walked in, and stood next to me by the sink. The bathroom was full, so I kept my voice down.

"How'd they get the tape? You've got the only copy."

"And it's in my office safe. They didn't get my copy."

She gave me an accusatory stare.

I sighed, too tired to get angry. "Give me a break. They crucified me up there. I want Fuller put away more than anyone."

"All I know is, no one has touched that tape since you gave it to me. That means it must have been copied prior to my receiving it."

I digested this.

"Unless we weren't the only ones taping the conversation. What if someone put a wire on Fuller?"

Libby's eyes got Betty Boop big.

"If there's another tape, that means there might be a record of Fuller admitting to the lies."

"Right. But who did the taping? His legal team? The prison? And even if we do find out who did it, how do we get a copy of the uncut version?"

"I know an audio guy. I'll get a copy of Garcia's tape, and compare it to yours. He should be able to tell if they're from different sources. That'll give me enough to be able to force Garcia into telling how he got the evidence."

A woman came over to use the sink, and Libby buttoned her lip. We left the washroom.

"How about Fuller's past?" Libby asked. "Any luck?"

"None. Maybe we could try Rushlo again."

"I've tried four times. The guy won't budge. His attorney keeps asking for extensions."

"Why?"

"Rushlo wants to stay in jail. He's afraid Fuller is going to get out and come after him. Jail is the only place he feels safe. He didn't even try to make bail."

"What's he being charged with?"

"Two counts of accessory. We've got him dead to rights. He's going away for a long time. But I'd trade that for Fuller in a heartbeat. The problem is, we can't find any connection. We don't even know how they met."

I rubbed my eyes, yawned.

"How long has he owned the funeral home?"

"Six years. Worked there eight years before buying it from the original owner."

"Before then?"

"His apprenticeship, Champaign-Urbana."

That was south, but still two hundred miles away from Carbondale, where Fuller went to school.

"Before then?"

"Worsham College of Mortuary Science in Wheeling."

Wheeling was even farther north.

"I'll keep digging. Maybe something will turn up."

"I hope so, Jack. You were my star witness, and the jury hates you. I've only got two more wits to call, and then it's the defense's ballgame. They're bringing in some big guns."

"How bad is it?"

Libby frowned. "If we don't get something fast, we're going to lose."

Chapter 35

Benedict was waiting for me in my office. "How'd it go?"

"The only reason I wasn't lynched is because no one in the courtroom had a rope."

He laughed, though it sounded forced.

"Why are you in such a chipper mood?"

"Freedom, Jack. Freedom at last."

"Freedom from what?"

"I saw a divorce lawyer this morning."

Herb smiled when he said it. I wasn't sure how to react.

"This is what you really want?"

"I've been living alone for almost a month, Jack. I love it. But I haven't really hit the scene yet."

"The scene?"

"The dating scene. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't want to start seeing other women while I'm still married. But that is gonna change real soon."

"How does Bernice feel about this?"

"She cried, but I know she realizes it's for the best. I'm getting close, Jack. I'm almost free."

Free from what, I thought? Free from a woman who loves you and devoted half of her life to you? Free from a home and a family? That's freedom?

"Congrats. I hope it works out for you."

"Up for a celebratory lunch? My treat. There's a new gyro place that lets you order without the pita."

"I'll pass. I've got some calls to make."

I was hungry, but didn't feel comfortable around Herb at that moment. Maybe because I thought he was making a colossal mistake.

Or maybe because I realized he and I were more alike than I cared to admit. Latham sprang to mind.

"Your loss," Benedict said. "I'll catch you later."

Herb left. The helpful drone at directory assistance gave me Worsham College of Mortuary Science, and connected me for an additional ten cents.

"I'm looking to speak with someone who might remember a student from fifteen years ago."

"Let me connect you with Professor Keevers. He's been here since the days before electricity. Hold a second."

I spent a minute listening to Muzak, then a smooth baritone picked up.

"This is Tom Keevers. Who am I speaking with?"

"I'm Lieutenant Daniels, from the Chicago Police Department. Do you remember a student from fifteen years ago named Derrick Rushlo?"

There was a pause.

"Derrick is in some kind of trouble, I take it?"

"Do you remember him?"

"Yes. Yes I do. We get people like Derrick every once in a while."

"What do you mean, people like Derrick?"

"I'm sure you know what I mean, hence your call."

"Necrophiles?"

"A distasteful minority in this profession. Has Derrick been caught with his pants down, so to speak? There are strict regulations against such activity, of course, but I wasn't aware of it being illegal."

"This is a homicide investigation, Professor. I take it you knew about Derrick's, uh, appetites?"

"I suspected. Never had proof. My best students remain aloof, detached, when embalming. Derrick was always a little too intimate with the bodies. Plus, there was that incident at SIU . . ."

"Excuse me? Do you mean Southern Illinois University?"

"Yes. They have an excellent mortuary school there. Derrick transferred from there to here."

And Bingo was his name-o.

"Was he expelled?"

"Not that I recall. Rather, he was encouraged to leave. If memory serves, one of their cadavers went missing, and suspicion fell on Derrick. There was never any evidence, though. It caused quite a stir in the academic community."

"Did he have any problems while at Worsham?"

"No. Excellent student. Did good work. I always had my suspicions about him, though. He murdered somebody, you say?"

"Accessory."

"That makes sense. I've always wanted to write a novel, with a mortician as the villain. It would be ridiculously easy, in our profession, to dispose of a murder victim."

"Cremation."

"There's that. But are you aware of how many closed casket funerals go on in this business? Some folks die beyond our ability to reconstruct them. Some families simply don't want to view the departed."

"So you're saying . . . ?"

"A mortician could easily place more than one body in a casket, and no one would ever know."

"Thank you for your time, Professor."

I hung up, excited. I not only had a connection between Fuller and Rushlo, but it gave me an idea on how we could get Rushlo to fess up.